Ernest Maltravers — Volume 09

By Edward Bulwer-Lytton

Edward Bulwer-Lytton was a well known English novelist in the 19th century, and he's been immortalized for coining famous phrases like  "pursuit of the almighty dollar" and "the pen is mightier than the sword".


In addition to being a politician, he wrote across all genres, from horror stories to historical fiction and action titles.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Krill Press
• Release date: Dec 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781518352478

Edward Bulwer-Lytton

Edward Bulwer-Lytton, engl. Romanschriftsteller und Politiker, ist bekannt geworden durch seine populären historischen/metaphysischen und unvergleichlichen Romane wie „Zanoni“, „Rienzi“, „Die letzten Tage von Pompeji“ und „Das kommende Geschlecht“. Ihm wird die Mitgliedschaft in der sagenumwobenen Gemeinschaft der Rosenkreuzer nachgesagt. 1852 wurde er zum Kolonialminister von Großbritannien ernannt.

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ERNEST MALTRAVERS — VOLUME 09

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Edward Bulwer-Lytton

YURITA PRESS

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This book is a work of fiction; its contents are wholly imagined.

All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.

Copyright © 2015 by Edward Bulwer-Lytton

Interior design by Pronoun

Distribution by Pronoun

TABLE OF CONTENTS

BOOK IX.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

Ernest Maltravers — Volume 09

By

Edward Bulwer-Lytton

Ernest Maltravers — Volume 09

Published by Yurita Press

New York City, NY

First published circa 1873

Copyright © Yurita Press, 2015

All rights reserved

Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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BOOK IX.

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I go, the bride of Acheron.—SOPH. /Antig./

These things are in the Future.—/Ib./ 1333.

CHAPTER I.

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I doubt he will be dead or ere I come.—/King John/.

IT was a fine afternoon in December, when Lumley Ferrers turned from Lord Saxingham’s door. The knockers were muffled—the windows on the third story were partially closed. There was sickness in that house.

Lumley’s face was unusually grave; it was even sad. So young—so beautiful, he muttered. If ever I loved woman, I do believe I loved her:—that love must be my excuse. . . . I repent of what I have done—but I could not foresee that a mere lover’s stratagem was to end in such effects—the metaphysician was very right when he said, ‘We only sympathise with feelings we know ourselves.’ A little disappointment in love could not have hurt me much—it is d——d odd it should hurt her so. I am altogether out of luck: old Templeton—I beg his pardon, Lord Vargrave—(by-the-by, he gets heartier every day—what a constitution he has!) seems cross with me. He did not like the idea that I should marry Lady Florence—and when I thought that vision might have been realised, hinted that I was disappointing some expectations he had formed; I can’t make out what he means. Then, too, the government have offered that place to Maltravers instead of to me. In fact, my star is not in the ascendant. Poor Florence, though,—I would really give a great deal to know her restored to health!—I have done a villainous thing, but I thought it only a clever one. However, regret is a fool’s passion. By Jupiter!—talking of fools, here comes Cesarini.

Wan, haggard, almost spectral, his hat over his brows, his dress neglected, his air reckless and fierce, Cesarini crossed the way, and thus accosted Lumley:

We have murdered her, Ferrers; and her ghost will haunt us to our dying day!

Talk prose; you know I am no poet. What do you mean?

She is worse to-day, groaned Cesarini, in a hollow voice. I wander like a lost spirit round the house; I question all who come from it. Tell me—oh, tell me, is there hope?

I do, indeed, trust so, replied Ferrers, fervently. The illness has only of late assumed an alarming appearance. At first it was merely a severe cold, caught by imprudent exposure one rainy night. Now they fear it has settled on the lungs; but if we could get her abroad, all might be well.

You think so, honestly?

I do. Courage, my friend; do not reproach yourself; it has nothing to do with us. She was taken ill of a cold, not of a letter, man!

"No, no; I judge her heart